


Envoi

by cloudyMew, lionpyh



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Elegy, F/M, Fanart, Illustrated, Sestina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudyMew/pseuds/cloudyMew, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionpyh/pseuds/lionpyh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For HSO 2012 Round 3. Writing by <b>lionpyh</b>; digital paintings by <b>cloudyMew</b>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Envoi

**Author's Note:**

> Larger versions of the images can be seen [here](http://file.walagata.com/w/kelaino/hso/hso1l.png), [here](http://file.walagata.com/w/kelaino/hso/hsomr35.png), and [here](http://file.walagata.com/w/kelaino/hso/hso3l.png).

  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


      2.

A smell of rust for miles. Iron oxides give  
a look of slumgullion to the falls.  
He follows, terrified, over the edge  
as with perfect faith. All in white she stands  
like a spear of bone on her raft. They swing past  
to wrench the needles out of the dead face.

That five-card Texas hold ’em face.  
Tinted windows. Interviewed, he’ll never give  
the same answer twice. Gently, drifting past  
the hotel balcony, a clot of pixels falls.  
 _So really, the flight of stairs always stands_  
 _for socialism?_ Yes, there’s your edge.

He braces the bottle on the table’s edge  
and opens a toast to her Nebula. Her face  
a paper lantern at dusk. Small hours: he stands  
at the black window. What he would not give.  
Bitten lip, bowed head. Into the river the sleet falls.  
The present eroding into the silt of the past.

Carpets congealed with sugar and mold. Once past  
the sniper on the stairs, simple. He tests the edge  
on his thumb, then on them. Half a President rolls, falls  
and spatters below. Grease-paint has made the face  
a skull already. The flag flares and catches. He will give  
no quarter to the republic for which it stands.

He bought the building to ensure it stands  
to inherit his son. Soda pop, puppets; long past  
denying he owns little but trouble to give.  
The last inhabitant, he lies near the roof’s edge,  
fingers tapping, a thin sunset lining his face.  
Soft tar, an eddy of feathers as night falls.

A gull hits her aura like a window and falls.  
White cat, white dragon, like that dawn’s stands  
of birches along I-40. Always harder to face  
delay than action. The warm wind comes past  
and moves the stiff cloth at the wound’s edge.  
Not the bravest nor last the world had to give.

DAVE:  Every empire falls. Every. Above the dark lake of the past  
no spire still stands. We stood at the edge and skipped stones  
on the face of the waters. Smile for the optogram and give me your hand.

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


      1.

All night she kept moving through  
the deaths of stars, gold, black, rose,  
ash in oceans, singing. Somewhere a break,  
a chasm, a place always drinking up light.  
She sits up with blood in her throat, each time  
nearer. Sunset: eyes closed, curtains drawn.

Thirteen nights thinner she was drawn  
like the bright needle of God through  
whole bolts of the fabric of space and time.  
A stillness, clouds of eyes. Their voices rose  
and closed over her. Salt, ice, a sinking, no light.  
 _Darkling darling, it’s your eggshell to break._

Waiting for the dream or the fever to break  
he will not sleep until she wakes. He has drawn  
the sheet back up all night. Flashes of light  
under her eyelids. She said _I broke through._  
Her face holy and mad. _I know._ She rose  
not his own, not for the last time.

She moves on the surface tension of time  
like a Halobates. A skin she can’t break  
but bruise. A vicious love her compass rose.  
A glitter on the waters. Again the plans drawn  
shatter and dissolve. Damn you, come through.  
Anchor the strand, the thread on which to light.

Only their names. His voice light  
as snow. As though there’s ever a time  
to show a man his children run through.  
Tauten the strings until they break.  
Guess and bluster. She will not be drawn.  
Red lightning, her daughter’s heart a wet rose.

Through the alleys the waters rose.  
Wrappers, cholera, oil, reflected light.  
An open sky. Sword and needles drawn  
against a black hole who has outlived time.  
They are two blades that will not break.  
Less than twenty minutes and it’s through.

ROSE:  Never world enough or time. Never. A splinter  
of light that closes. The one contract we can’t break,  
drawn up unconsenting. My hand, love. Lead me through.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
                  


  
  
  
  
  
  



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